Once under shelter, they stomped the moisture from their feet and walked more slowly up the concrete ramp. The wet cement had a surprisingly acrid smell. Thomas still wasn’t acting normally, and Cassi tried to guess what was bothering him. She had the uncomfortable feeling that it was something she’d done. But she couldn’t imagine what. They hadn’t seen each other since the ride in to the hospital Thursday morning, and everything had seemed fine at that time.

“Are you tired from working last night?” asked Cassi.

“Yes, I probably am. I haven’t thought too much about it, though.”

“And your cases? They went okay?”

“I told you, they went fine,” said Thomas. “In fact I could have done another bypass if they had allowed me to schedule it. I did three cases in the time it took George Sherman to do two and Ballantine, our fearless chief, to do one.”

“Sounds like you should be pleased,” said Cassi.

They stopped in front of an anthracite metallic 928 Porsche. Thomas hesitated, looking at Cassi over the top of the car. “But I’m not pleased. As usual there was a host of little things to annoy me, making my work more difficult. It seems to be getting worse, not better, around the Memorial. I’m really fed up. Then to top it all off, at the cardiac surgery meeting, I was informed that four of my weekly OR slots were being expropriated so George Sherman could schedule more of his goddamn teaching cases. They don’t even have enough teaching patients to fill the slots they already have without dredging up patients who have no right to precious space in the hospital.”

Thomas unlocked his door, climbed in and reached across to open Cassi’s.

“Besides,” said Thomas, gripping the steering wheel, “I have a feeling something else is going on in the hospital. Something between George Sherman and Norman Ballantine. God! I’ve just had it with all the bullshit!”

Thomas gunned the engine, then rammed the car back, then forward, the tires screeching in protest. Cassi braced herself against the dashboard to keep herself upright. When he stopped to stick his card into the slot for the automatic gate, she reached over her shoulder for her seat belt. As she locked it in place, she said, “Thomas, I think you should fasten yours, too.”

“For Chrissake,” yelled Thomas. “Stop nagging me.”

“I’m sorry,” said Cassi quickly, now certain that she was in some way partially responsible for her husband’s foul mood.

Thomas weaved in and out of traffic, cutting in front of irate commuters. Cassi was afraid to say anything lest she anger him further. It was like a Grand Prix free-for-all.

Once they were north of the city, the traffic thinned out. Despite the fact Thomas was going over seventy, Cassi began to relax.

“I’m sorry I seemed like a pest, especially after an aggravating day,” she said finally.

Thomas didn’t respond, but his face was less tense and his grip on the steering wheel not as tight. Several times Cassi started to ask if she’d been responsible for upsetting him, but she could not find the right words. For a while she just watched the rain-slicked road rushing toward them. “Have I done something that’s bothered you?” she said at last.

“You have,” snapped Thomas.

They rode for a while in silence. Cassi knew it would come sooner or later.

“It seems Larry Owen knows all about our private medical matters,” said Thomas.

“It’s no secret that I have diabetes,” said Cassi.

“It’s no secret because you talk about it so often,” said Thomas. “I think the less said the better. I don’t like us to be the brunt of gossip.”

Cassi could not remember mentioning anything to Larry about her medical problems, but of course that wasn’t the issue. She was well aware she’d talked to a number of people about her diabetes, including Joan Widiker that very day. Thomas, like her mother, felt Cassi’s disease was not a subject to be shared, even with close friends.

Cassi looked over at Thomas. The bands of light and shadow from the oncoming cars moved down his face and obscured his expression.

“I guess I never thought discussing my diabetes affected us,” said Cassi. “I’m sorry. I’ll be more careful.”

“You know how gossip is in a medical center,” said Thomas. “It’s better not to give them anything to talk about. Larry knew more than just about your diabetes. He knew that you might have to have eye surgery. That’s pretty specific. He said he heard it from your friend Robert Seibert.”

Now it made sense to Cassi. She knew she hadn’t said anything to Larry Owen. “I did talk to Robert,” she conceded. “It seemed only natural. We’ve known each other so long, and he told me about his surgery. He’s having impacted wisdom teeth out. With his history of severe rheumatic fever he has to be admitted and treated with IV antibiotics.”

They turned north off Route 128, heading toward the ocean. There were unexpected patches of heavy fog, and Thomas slowed down.

“I still don’t think talking about such problems is a good idea,” said Thomas, squinting through the windshield. “Especially to someone like Robert Seibert. It’s still beyond me how you can tolerate such an overt homosexual.”

“We never talk about Robert’s sexual preferences,” said Cassi sharply.

“I don’t understand how you could avoid the subject,” said Thomas.

“Robert is a sensitive, intelligent human being and a damn good pathologist.”

“I’m glad he has some redeeming qualities,” said Thomas, conscious that he was baiting his wife.

Cassi bit down her reply. She knew that Thomas was angry and was trying to provoke her; she also knew that losing her own temper would accomplish nothing. After a brief silence, she reached across and massaged Thomas’s neck. At first he remained rigid, but after a few minutes she felt him respond.

“I’m sorry I talked about my diabetes,” she said, “and I’m sorry I talked about my eye condition.”

Maintaining her massage, Cassi stared out the window with unseeing eyes. A cold fear made her wonder if Thomas was getting tired of her illness. Maybe she’d been complaining too much, especially with all the upset about changing residencies. Thinking about it, Cassi had to admit that Thomas had been distancing himself from her in the last few months, acting more impulsive and with less tolerance. Cassi made a vow to talk less about her illness. She knew, more than anyone, how much pressure Thomas put himself under, and she promised herself not to make it worse.

Moving her hand up his neck, Cassi thought it would be wise to change the subject.

“Did anyone say anything about your doing three bypasses while the others did one or two?”

“No. No one says anything because it’s always the same. There really isn’t anyone for me to compete with.”

“What about competing with the best: yourself!” said Cassi with a smile.

“Oh, no!” said Thomas. “Don’t give me any of that pseudopsychology.”

“Is competition important at this point?” asked Cassi, becoming serious. “Isn’t the satisfaction of helping people return to active lives enough?”

“It’s a nice feeling,” admitted Thomas. “But it doesn’t help me get beds or OR time even though the patients I propose are the most deserving both from a physical and sociological standpoint. And their gratitude probably won’t make me chief, although I’m not sure I want the position any longer. To tell you the truth, the kick of surgery doesn’t last like it used to. Lately I get this empty feeling.”

The word “empty” reminded Cassi of something. Had it been a dream? She glanced around the interior of the car, noting the characteristic smell of the leather, listening to the repetitive click of the windshield wipers, letting her mind wander. What was the association? Then she remembered-“empty” was the word Colonel Bentworth used to describe his life in recent years. Angry and empty, that’s what he’d said.